


beg dead trees for money next

by crimsonxflowers



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: (not sexual tension meyer is still a tiny okay), Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sal?” Any other situation, Meyer’d be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks over the name, but he’s too surprised to care now. </p><p>Sal winces, fast enough that Meyer wouldn’t have seen it if he wasn’t staring right at him, but before he can ask what’s wrong, Sal covers it with a smile—weak and more exhausted than anything else, but it makes something in Meyer’s chest tighten up anyway. “Hey, little Meyer."</p>
            </blockquote>





	beg dead trees for money next

**Author's Note:**

> set pre-s1, the evening charlie gets out of hampton farms (dec 25th, 1916).
> 
> title very slightly tweaked from [this poem](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/post/137211875176/i-im-the-kind-of-asshole-who-will-stand-on-the) by jones howell

The harsh buzz of the doorbell had startled his parents, his father actually home before midnight thanks to the holiday and the two of them always edgy around this time of year—Meyer understands why, remembers more than they think he does, but why let them know when it’ll only upset them? So Meyer offered to get the door and get rid of whoever was interrupting their evening. He opens the door ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off, but his annoyed expression melts away when he catches sight of who’s on the doorstep, shoulders hunched against the December cold. “Sal?” Any other situation, Meyer’d be embarrassed at the way his voice cracks over the name, but he’s too surprised to care now. Distantly, he’s sure he looks stupid, eyes wide and shocked, but the absolute last person he was expecting to see is right here in front of him.

Sal winces, fast enough that Meyer wouldn’t have seen it if he wasn’t staring right at him, but before he can ask what’s wrong, Sal covers it with a smile—weak and more exhausted than anything else, but it makes something in Meyer’s chest tighten up anyway. “Hey, little Meyer,” he says quietly, and his voice has changed. It’s deeper, slower, and Meyer blinks, more than a little thrown by it.

“Thought you were in until June?”  


The smile on Sal’s face twists a little bit, turns bitter, and he shrugs. “Got out early,” Sal grits out, not quite meeting Meyer’s eyes. “‘Good behavior,’ I guess.” He shifts his weight and shoves his hands deeper in his coat pockets, tilting his chin at Meyer where he’s still staring from the doorway. “You, uh, gonna let me freeze out here or what?”  


“Fuck, no, c’mon in,” Meyer says, stepping back so Sal can edge past him into the front hall. “Everyone’s home for Hanukkah tonight, I dunno if you want to come upstairs, or…” He trails off, shutting the door behind them, and rocks back on his heels as Sal shucks off his hat and coat to drape them over the banister, and _fuck—_ “You look like shit,” he blurts out, and he can tell he’s staring again, but it’s kind of true. The fabric of Sal’s shirt is much looser around his waist and chest, and tight across his upper arms in a way it never was before he left. His face is thinner, too, now that Meyer’s paying attention, the angles of his cheekbones and jaw that much sharper than six months ago. Combined with the tired tilt of his shoulders… he looks so much older. Sal’s always looked tough, but now, under the fatigue, he looks dangerous.  


Sal’s eyebrows jump for his hairline and Meyer has a second to worry about crossing a line that was never there before, before Sal’s smirking and taking a step closer. “Yeah? At least I’m not still three feet tall. Didn’t eat your vegetables while I was gone?” he snipes back, using every one of the five inches he’s still got on Meyer to loom over him.

 _Oh thank fuck._ Meyer tilts his head back and scowls up at Sal—like he always has, easy, familiar—and pretends like he’s not almost shaking with relief that, if nothing else, at least this is the same between them. “You wanna be like that, you can go back out in the snow.” He keeps the scowl up for all of three seconds before he cracks in the face of the genuine amusement in Sal’s expression and smiles back.

Sal laughs, then, loud and unrestrained, and the tightness in Meyer’s chest ratchets up another notch. Before Meyer can even react, Sal leans forward and catches Meyer in a tight hug, unselfconscious about the contact as he’s always been. Meyer’s not expecting it at all, not expecting the contact or how good it feels, how much he _missed_  it. Sal’s only been inside for a few minutes, but he’s so warm, the weight of his arms over Meyer’s shoulders heavy but comforting, and this—Sal’s affection, the physicality, the warmth of him—is familiar too.

(The way Meyer’s stomach flips when Sal leans into him isn’t familiar _at all_.)

“Fuck, I missed you, you little shit,” Sal says quietly into Meyer’s shoulder, and it’s hard to breathe for a second or two, but Meyer wraps his arms around Sal’s torso and squeezes back just as hard.  


“Missed you too, asshole,” he replies just as quietly, and he’s glad for the fabric of Sal’s shirt against his face because he can feel his cheeks burning at the admission. Like it’s something scandalous, like he shouldn’t have missed his best friend and spent the months counting down until his sentence was up. And now he’s _here_ , six months early, no warning at all, and fuck if Meyer doesn’t feel like a weight’s been lifted.

Sal chuckles against his ear and Meyer has to brace against a shudder, tries to hide the sinking feeling that comes with it as Sal pulls back. When Meyer looks up at him, Sal’s expression is clear and open and most of the exhaustion he’d shown up with is just… gone, replaced with a quiet fondness that makes Meyer swallow hard. He steps back, out of the embrace—he doesn’t really want to, wants to step _closer_  instead, and that’s different, that’s more than a little scary, so he makes himself pull away—and gestures faintly up the stairs. “I should tell Ma no one’s trying to drag all of us to church, but then we can go do something?” He offers tentatively, not really sure what there is to do out there in the cold, when it’s late enough that the night’s candles are already lit across the neighborhood. But they’ve got some unfinished business to talk about, and somehow he doesn’t think Sal wants to go back home. Meyer doesn’t want to let him go, either.  


Sal’s brows knit together in confusion for a second, but he nods and waves Meyer up the stairs. “Yeah, go on. Tell Jake I say hey,” he says with another grin, and Meyer rolls his eyes. It’d make Jake’s night, one of Meyer’s older friends acknowledging his existence, but Meyer would rather not let his mother know he’s going to run off with one of his goyische friends on Christmas.  


“Meyer?” Sal’s fingers wrap around his wrist as he steps by him, and when Meyer looks at him, he’s back to looking a little tired, and more nervous than Meyer can remember seeing him. No one else would be able to read it on him, but months of sitting across a card table from him means Meyer knows his tells. From the way Sal chews the inside of his lip before he speaks, those haven’t changed either. “Can you—” he pauses, then sets his jaw and keeps going. “It’s Charlie now. Not Sal.”  


And that is not at all what Meyer was expecting. He’s back to staring, and he can see the challenge rising in Sal’s expression the longer Meyer’s quiet. The way Sal winced when Meyer said his name before, and now this, the way he’s ready to fight over this even with the exhaustion he’s still carrying… “Okay,” Meyer finally says, and all the fight goes right out of Sal—Charlie—his expression clearing as quickly as it darkened.

“Okay,” he says, letting Meyer’s wrist drop. Meyer waits for more, some kind of explanation, for Charlie to touch him again, _anything_. Instead, Charlie waves up the stairs again, cocks an eyebrow, which does nothing to hide the smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Go get mommy’s permission to leave, little man.”  


Meyer glares, curiosity and concern subsiding, and swipes a fist at Charlie’s shoulder, a wide swing telegraphed clearly enough that he could’ve dodged if he wanted, so Meyer doesn’t feel bad when it connects with a thump. “Fuck off,” he bites out as Charlie rubs at his shoulder, Charlie’s face more amused than annoyed, “I’ll be right back.” He turns away from Charlie’s dumb toothy grin and takes the stairs as fast as he can.

Meyer exhales hard as he crosses the second floor landing and wraps his fingertips around his wrist—the one Charlie’d had a hold of. The knowledge that Charlie’s back, probably for good, is more a relief than Meyer can describe. There’s no reason for the heavy, guilty feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He _missed_ Charlie, missed making plans with him, missed running games with him, missed the way he’s never let anything stop him from slinging an arm over Meyer’s shoulder and tugging him in close.

Meyer missed him. He’s allowed to miss his best friend. He’s allowed to be happy Charlie’s back, weird name change and all.

That’s all this is.

Nothing’s changed.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about gangsters in love [on tumblr](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com)


End file.
